


Somewhere Where You're There

by metal_eye



Series: Caught by the Sun [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Blowjobs, Boat Sex, Cabin AU, Cabin Fic, It's entirely Harry and Medicine's fault, M/M, Nostalgia, Sequel, Summer, Timestamp, basically they fuck everywhere even though it's not really explicit, lake sex, lots and lots of blowjobs, there are feelings too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 23:43:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14413032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metal_eye/pseuds/metal_eye
Summary: "The greatest luxury, in this new part of their lives, should have been time. It stretched at varied intervals with no attention to what the real world might find convenient. Hours yawned like horses’ mouths, stretching backwards in the effort of seconds. Except that Harry couldn’t help feeling like he’d missed out, somehow. That he needed to hurry. They’d been denied their formative horny years. Something had to give."ACaught by the Suntimestamp in which they are both lazy and horny, and some things get resolved.





	Somewhere Where You're There

**Author's Note:**

> Sooooo this happened. I had no plans for a sequel, but then Harry had to go and give us a dick-sucking anthem in "Medicine" and I got all excited by the blowjob fic that would happen because of it, and I waited and waited and it... didn't happen. Or at least not quickly enough. So I was like FINE FINE I HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING AROUND HERE and started writing about all the sex that Harry and Louis would have now that nobody else was at the lake. Most pointedly the blowjobs, of course. And then there were feelings! Blowjobs with feelings.
> 
> Somewhere down the line I'll probably give some bullshit like "I was poetically inspired by the wind and and this line from a Yeats poem" but the cold hard truth of the matter is I was just super proud of Harry for singing about sucking dick. Still am. Proud, that is.
> 
> Eternal gratitude to my cheerleaders [twopoppies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twopoppies/pseuds/twopoppies), [briamaria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BriaMaria/pseuds/BriaMaria), and [indiaalphawhiskey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/indiaalphawhiskey/pseuds/indiaalphawhiskey) and my gracious beta, smut queen [awriterwrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Awriterwrites/pseuds/Awriterwrites).
> 
> Here, have a playlist. It's fixed now - the songs were in the wrong order before and that's bad mojo, so try this order instead.
> 
> Cadilac / T. Rex  
> You're My Home / Billy Joel  
> Simple Joys / Ben Vereen  
> Mon esprit / Sweet Crude  
> Young Lust / Pink Floyd  
> Medicine / Harry Styles  
> Do You Wanna Touch Me? (Oh Yeah!) / Gary Glitter  
> Venus in Furs / The Velvet Underground  
> Waiting for the Sun / The Doors  
> Earth and Sun and Moon / Midnight Oil  
> Sunshine on March / Bernard Fevre  
> I Think I'll Call it Morning / Gil Scott-Heron  
> Old Souls / Jessica Harper  
> If There is Something / Roxy Music
> 
> Title is from "Moonlight" by Art of Fighting.

Eventually, it went like this:

Days and hours and moments would pass, all along the shore with an additional ecstatic energy in between plastic lawn chairs that was ultimately sated in tactile currency between new skin and exploration. Between shivering and moss-toeing and half a leg hanging off the fold out bed in the main room, Harry found himself thinking about what pinches were keeping Louis here, what black holes of soot and thought could be holding him, his center cemented on the dark cabin floor instead of sprawled out in the house he had somehow inherited.

He preferred the cabin, Louis said. It was closer to the ground. Less groomed.

Louis never left at the end of the day. They would find themselves draped over each other on the old couch after reading and too much wine.

Harry didn’t bring it up. Why would he? The urge to touch overtook curiosity.

They did fewer things. Days unfolded upon them with layers of different light indicating where they had gone. A particular morning might sneak up on him, peek over the far side of the lake like a clown trying for stale surprise, orioles and chickadees already chorusing. He’d turn his head and sniff a noseful of hair that smelled like strawberries and smoke, one leg hanging off the old bed onto the floor, the other stretched as far as it would possibly go into the opposite corner. Sheets bound him in place, as did an arm around his waist; curled digits danced against his bare hip in delicate sleep. And he’d stay right where he was, without rush.

The thing was, Harry didn’t miss anyone. What he’d called homesickness before turned out to be a sense of not needing to be anywhere else: an acceptance of eternity, that it would be okay forever as long as Louis was there. That his need to get back to the lake was, in fact, a need to get back to Louis. They spent hours poured over chairs on the stone porch like liquids congealed into a lazy position.

The greatest luxury, in this new part of their lives, should have been _time_. It stretched at varied intervals with no attention to what the real world might find convenient. Hours yawned like horses’ mouths, stretching backwards in the effort of seconds. Except that Harry couldn’t help feeling like he’d missed out, somehow. That he needed to _hurry_. They’d been denied their formative horny years. Something had to give.

It was usually the fold-out couch bed. The best thing about fucking in the main room of the cabin was the massive window with its picturesque perfection, lolling peacefully unawares at making the entire lake a viewing host to their sexual proclivities. The cove was fairly deserted, especially during the week, the lakeside path having been mostly abandoned for private property signs. Still, Harry found it amusing, and even a little exciting, to expose themselves like that. “The chipmunks are getting boners,” Louis would quip between breaths. “We’re the best porn channel those great blue herons have ever had.” Harry would roll his eyes fondly and kiss his mouth to shut him up, then kiss lower, kiss wherever he could.

 

For Harry, there was almost too much to love about having the cabin to himself, not the least of which was how often he could suck Louis off in the most creative places possible. Harry was determined to be as enthusiastic now as they couldn’t be as teenagers, and every place that had played a part in his memories was a chance to be dirty. The tiny bathroom barely allowed for one person, but that didn’t stop Harry from dragging Louis into the bathtub with him in the morning and getting creative with the detachable shower head. On good days neither of them knocked their head against the wall. It was difficult to concentrate on getting clean. It had been close to five years, after all.

The other option for hygiene was the lake itself, and although they didn’t actively swim much anymore, the sunwarm wading depths were as friendly as ever. Harry mentioned his relatives taking baths in the lake with shampoo in the old days, but Louis told him about a science project he’d done in third grade when he’d watered flowers with soap and eventually killed them, so that was out. Neither wanted dead plants on their consciousness. Then down at the dock one day, Harry inflated a brand new float — it was big enough for the both of them — and quipped that even if they couldn’t take a real bath, there was still more room than the dinky bathtub.

It didn’t take long for Harry to pull Louis up past squeaking rubber, flip him over, and peel both of their swim trunks down. With the lake as quiet as it was, they could drift for hours; the only danger was getting so wrapped up in bringing each other off that the waves pushed the raft halfway down the cove and landed them at Wild Thing Point on some old couples’ beach with their pants around their ankles. It only happened once, but Louis made a Wild Thing joke and Harry shoved him into the sand and threatened to paddle home without him.

They had to make up for lost time.

The thing was — and it felt a little weird, because he was always asking Louis if he could — the thing was that Harry _loved_ giving head. It was a bit of an obsession, now he was allowed. He loved the feel of Louis under his lips, the clenched thigh muscles he could palm, the high-pitched whines that marked the near-end. He loved the pointedly salty and yet not quite savory flavor of Louis’ come; it tasted like he’d won something, completed some grand adventure. It never quite settled perfectly in his stomach, but stirred his mood, gave him fresh ground, made him smile up at Louis as he wiped the inevitable string that had missed his mouth.

The thing was, almost every grand memory associated with the lake was also associated with Louis, and thus with hiding and secrets. Harry wanted to recreate all of it without shame, to spit in the faces of the prevalent relatives and one father who could no longer care. But getting there was a challenge in itself: Louis was understandably cautious and crawling with awful memories. And even Harry faltered in the half morning light now and then, memory rushing back to that bedroom and the raw dread that had settled into his chest.

They never crossed over the strip of trees that led to Louis’ old house. They stayed at Harry’s end of the camp, settled down into the shade between places that had not threatened them. Some havens became fearless fortresses of give-no-fucks; the hammock, once so precarious, hardly moved when their bodies were braced and connected against the cloth. The sound of waves lapping at the shore surrounded them in a grateful symphony.

The back bedroom of the cabin was a wild card due to the fact that the door simply would not stay closed. Something about the wooden floor had warped and given way to a swinging tendency that made a lot of noise on some days and smacked Harry in the hip on other ones. At first, Harry’s movements were as reverent as possible so as not to disturb the bloated past. There was a hundred year old tapestry on the back wall, and he felt a little guilty for exposing its legacy to the kind of groans Louis gave when he was close. But — and he admitted to a great deal of bias — Harry loved Louis, and Louis’s cock, far too much. Now that he could have both of them all the time, he had a hard time justifying discretion in front of his family’s old artifacts.

 

There was more no-man’s land than ever between the cabins now, or at least it seemed so when Harry searched for something familiar. He avoided the brush-filled banks, still wary of whatever nest of insects might surprise him. But as changed as everything was, it felt the same every time he looked at Louis.

The outdoor shower was still there. Even in the warm months when no relatives came barging out of the Big House to bother them, the water was on and sprayed fitfully at their adult forms like it resented their growth. Like it well knew how their older limbs poked out beyond the slats of wood like the ends of grilled bratwurst on a bun. But it still held that sense of secrecy, that magic that allowed Harry to feel excited instead of embarrassed when Louis pulled at his swimsuit, a different magic that surrounded them in soft nostalgia while Harry bent to nose at his hips and every errant finger pushed through his hair was saying _Shhhh_.

 

Louis surprised him, too, pulling hard at their missing years. The first time they ventured beyond mouths and hands was on a set of cloth flotation seats shoved into a stored canoe in the old boathouse.

“Hey,” Louis said one day while dragging floats from the boathouse.

Harry just smiled. “Hey?”

“Let’s go back.”

“To the boats?”

“Yeah.”

Harry laughed. He moved a beckoning finger in the air and stepped backwards into the cobwebbed haven of the boathouse, falling against a life raft stored in the hull of an old canoe. “Oof,” he said, bumping his shin and sprawling down awkwardly.

He relished the fact that the boathouse belonged to his relatives, that the level of audacity involved in these escapades would make his straight-collared cousins turn white.

In the end, their movement only caused havoc once, when Harry rolled over and the sailboat couldn’t hold its center of gravity, and it collapsed sideways against a wooden piling with a massive _clunk_. But then, he barely noticed — accommodating Louis’ fingers held all of his (perhaps misguided) attention.

 

Towels were an excuse to take them off, especially after bathing. In particularly daring outdoor moments, Harry would yank Louis behind the old clothesline out back of the cabin where they had teen-kissed many a time and drag him down to the soft moss, dropping his own towel and lunging forward to feel the smooth inside of Louis’ thighs.

“Turn around,” he’d say, and Louis would maneuver his knees to face the opposite way, no doubt praising the lack of pines and acorns on this side of the house as he moved.

Harry, heady with lust, would pull at Louis’ towel and come to gnaw gently on his lower backbone, burying his face into the soft flesh and allowing his tongue to lick across, between, inside. It was absolutely _filthy_ , and Harry loved it, especially after Louis sustained guttural moans like _“God, I love you”_ at the furthest point inward. Because it wasn’t perfect, or even appropriate; Harry couldn’t say anything back with a mouthful of boy, but the words — he _felt_ them, and he bit harder at Louis’ skin in response, leaving trails of saliva where there should have been speech.

Later, when he washed his face before bed, Harry would whisper his own oaths into the stream of water where they couldn’t be wasted, but would circulate forever: things like _you are me_ and _your curves are victorious_ and _I want to swallow you alive; you belong inside me all the time, baby._

Sometimes he muttered them in his sleep. Or he must have, because Louis always looked at him differently in the morning.

 

The three bear shack was as good as gone. The tennis court was a wilderness of moss. The ferns were as frequent as ever, but only came to Harry’s knees, he discovered, one day while roaming for birch bark among the trees. He would always check back to find Louis, to make sure he was real, and was always met with a soft smile, at  least until they stumbled upon the remains of Harry’s old tree house, rotting and crumbling reluctantly into the earth.

“Fuck,” said Harry, and his eyes inexplicably filled with tears – not for the treehouse itself, but for all their missing years, the ones when all this happened and they weren’t around to see it.

Louis looked up and the ferns loomed, and Harry crashed into him with a hug, hard. They held each other and then kissed heavily against the last dead tree that still held weight.

 

Half the garage had been turned into a guest bed and bath a year or so before Harry arrived to stay for good. Perhaps it had been his father’s last half-baked idea to keep tenants during the off-season, keep some kind of income flowing, or keep a sense of belonging alive.

At any rate, the room existed now, a loft built just below the ceiling that could only be accessed by ladder. Truly secretive. Truly private. When Harry suggested a sleepover in said loft, the implication was more than clear.

Ignoring the queen-sized bed, they climbed up to the tiny loft where Harry had stashed a jar of coconut oil and a couple of condoms like pirate’s treasure. He’d found the oil in the cabin pantry and been incalculably grateful.

 “It has many practical uses,” Harry explained.

“Right.” Louis was smirking.

 “Look,” said Harry, giving in, “have you ever tried to shop for lube at a country drugstore in the middle of nowhere? It’s fucking traumatizing.”

Louis shrugged and picked up the jar, making a show of inspecting the label, tongue peeking from the side of his lips.

Harry was nervous, but the newness of the loft cabin matched the newness of what he was feeling. There was no precedent, and therefore no real fear.

 

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Harry said later, dragging an oiled finger from the jar around to his back, awkwardly, and pushing inward. He was trying not to rush, but everything still held a strange sense of urgency, like they were going to be interrupted, inevitably. Eventually.

They were on top of several sleeping bags after discovering that such a small space required full maneuverability above expected patterns of romance.

“Harry, it’s been weeks,” said Louis, holding Harry’s other hand as they braced against each other, trying for ease.

“Still,” said Harry. “Still feels like I’m hallucinating.” He punctuated the final word with an impatient groan as his elbow hit the low ceiling. Not even the tiny bathtub was as difficult to maneuver as this.

“You’re not,” said Louis, cupping Harry’s hip with his free hand. “Hey. Don’t try so hard. We can do it a different way.”

“I wanted to look at you, though,” said Harry, pouting a bit at the complexity of positions. He didn’t fancy staring at the bleak wooden floor slats.

It might have been awkward even after their necessary discussion of safety, but Harry trusted Louis completely, and thus allowed himself to be pulled around to his side, Louis’ hips nesting against his peacefully, like they were spooning on the hammock or lying sideways on a raft in the shallow lake.

Louis nuzzled Harry’s hair and ran a hand along his upper leg. The loft smelled like new wood and not old time. Somehow they made perfect use of the unfamiliar space. “Haz,” Louis whispered, eventually, when they connected as well as they could for a first time. “There’s something I need to do.”

“Right now?”

“No, I mean, I have to leave for a bit.” His breaths came quickly on Harry’s neck, upper hand poised upon the paunch that had formed post-growth spurt.

 _Inevitable interruption._ There it was. Harry thought briefly about shrinking into the far corner and leaving himself cold and unfinished in a kind of protection. But trust and the need to come overcame him, and he pushed back more aggressively instead. “No, you don’t.”

“I do.” Louis didn’t seem happy about it, and Harry felt him grip his hips too tightly, like he was gripping the side of a building to keep from falling off.

“You don’t. You’re staying right here with me.”

“I’m coming back,” Louis whispered in perfect rhythm, pulling Harry apart a bit more to accommodate his meaning.

Harry keened, but remained steady. “Are you really?”

“Where else would I go?”

“You have to promise.”

“I do promise, Harry. It’s just for a week. I have to,” Louis panted at a pleasure threshold, “sort some shit out.”

Some shit about his father’s house, no doubt. “A week.” Harry pulled Louis’ hand to his chest and dug his nails into it. “Sounds like forever.”

“At least it’s not five years.”

There was a pause in the exchange as breaths began to race against each other. Harry bit his lip and closed his eyes. “When you get back,” he managed, “it’s going to be _forever_. We missed enough time. Now we get to be immortal.”

Harry couldn’t twist his head far enough to look, but Louis sounded like his throat caught slightly when he said, “Right.”

“We’re not going to die,” Harry continued. “Never, ever. Never.”

They had reached the point where speaking was nearly impossible beyond sighs, but before giving up completely, Harry muttered another litany from his bitten lips like a plea to the ancient shore: _Never die_.

 

The next morning Harry had to scramble down the ladder to use the bathroom, and he vowed against using the loft for anything but storage ever again.

 

Luckily, Louis’ car looked nothing like the black SUV that had taken him away all those years ago. Luckily, he didn’t leave from the gravel of his old house but from the soft sand next to Harry’s cabin, ducking under a pine tree branch as he finished re-packing the car.

“Hey,” said Louis, when it was time to go. “Wait for me.”

Harry clutched at him and kissed both of his eyelids, knowing he could wait forever, but hoping he wouldn’t have to. Louis slipped off the only ring he ever wore — a sterling silver band with “strong” engraved on one side — and pushed it against Harry’s lips until he opened them. Harry kept tonguing at the strange metal as he stood there and the sound of grinding tires got fainter and fainter.

 

It was hard, but Harry went back to his list of cabin refinements, things that had to change if they planned to stay past September, repairs and reminders that the place had only ever been ephemeral. He took the temporary summer and made it permanent.

He made an appointment to replace the old septic tank with one that could actually sustain itself. He crafted wooden blocks to go between the sets of stone steps to the lake that had become more treacherous every year. He bought six space heaters – one for every room of the cabin, and one extra just in case. He even alphabetized the ancient bookshelf.

Harry considered buying a new clock to replace the vintage metal one set into the fireplace that always said it was 2:00 PM, but then decided against it, getting a digital alarm that plugged into the wall instead. He’d had enough of waiting, after all; a relic with a still minute hand might give him peace of mind amidst all the change.

Louis was gone for a week and it felt like the end of the world, but at the end of the week, his boxy old car rolled down the driveway, crunching the sand, Louis’ smile so wide that Harry could see it from the house before he came racing out to the already open door.

(He got leg cramps later that night from folding himself into a small enough parcel to fit in front of the car seat and give Louis a proper welcome with his mouth.)

 

Louis brought back a set of keys that he hung on a nail in the kitchen and proceeded to ignore. Harry didn’t have to ask what they were. He just waited for Louis to be ready.

 

One afternoon after lying on the dock for a bit, Louis restlessly fidgeting and rearranging his limbs, he went into the cabin, grabbed the keys from the dead spot on the kitchen nail, and took Harry’s hand as they crossed the roots and moss that led down the path towards Harry’s grandparents’ old house. They didn’t say a word along the way, just cooed appropriately at dogs and sidestepped inconveniently placed lawn chairs. It was an unremarkable day. Nothing to point to – not even wind.

When they reached the edge of the red house’s yard they turned slightly sideways to slip through the trees, treading softly on leaves just as Harry had done a decade ago. They emerged onto the once-trimmed grass, and it all looked strangely the same. Not threatening or emotional, just a too-big house overstepping its architectural bounds on land meant for humility. The grass had grown and weeds had come in like unwelcome relatives; the shutters were stained from years of snowfall and were now slightly warped.

They went to the garage first as a kind of caustic test. The old trampoline had been stored sideways, balanced against the windows like it weighed nothing. Harry thought they might take it out for the hell of it, but it was blocked by scores of wooden furniture and a massive jet ski, so all they did was look.

Getting the house’s back door open was more difficult than it should have been. Harry tried to take the key from Louis several times, but Louis wouldn’t have it. He turned it slowly, went back when it got stuck, and turned it again.

They paid no heed to the mini theater room, the game room, or the kitchen, but headed straight for the stairs, walking inevitably into the old bedroom when they reached the top. The bed was stripped of sheets, its mattress encased in plastic; the shelves were empty and the skylight was so darkened by the bodies of flying bugs that the sun barely sneaked through.

Louis sat down in the small beam of sunlight on the bed. He didn’t crack any jokes. Harry didn’t paw at him or make motions toward his waist, only reached for his hand and held it as they sat there counting minutes and watching the lone ray of light try to stretch across their feet.

 

Though his grandparents were gone, Harry’s aunt and uncle had bought the red house and its surrounding property and made it their own. It wasn’t the same, but it was comfortable, and many of the staples he’d grown up with remained in place while walls and appliances grew up around them.

They invited Harry over for dinner one night in muggy August, and he asked if he could bring someone. “Of course, bring a friend!” his aunt had exclaimed, and he tried to smile but found himself wincing instead.

He brought Louis, and introduced him as Louis, tepidly. The water was still boiling, so his uncle gave them each a drink and they went into the owl room to play cards.

Harry tried to concentrate on his gin hand as the owl stared. He didn’t owe it anything. _They_ didn’t owe it anything. Except every time he looked, the eye was upon him, ominous. _You’re out of time,_ it said. _You’re out—_

“Hey,” Harry said to it eventually, and Louis looked up. “Watch this.”

He put his cards down and stood up straight. Louis looked up at him and blinked.

“Stand up for a second.”

Louis did. And without preample or explanation, Harry took his face and kissed him, a bit messy on purpose, lingering between his lips. Louis smiled as he pulled away. Harry grabbed Louis’ hands and spun him in a circle, eyes and smile widely happy, until they collapsed onto the footed pink couch.

“You’re making me dizzy,” said Louis. He grabbed Harry and they kissed again, lazily.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw someone standing in the hallway, and he stood up so fast he could feel the blood rush from his head.

It was his aunt. But she was smiling. And as Louis slowly rose to stand beside Harry, she said, “Boys. Dinner’s just about ready. Why don’t you join us?”

Harry pushed out a breath. He took Louis’ hand as they threaded through the hallway after her, around the old closet and into the kitchen. The windows were open. There was no danger.


End file.
